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ePaper created 2014-04-08, 18:05:31 | version 1.29.01
77 Right heavy pack was it. ‘Gude save us aa’, saes the wife, wi’ a smile, ‘But yours is a thrivin’ trade’. ‘Aye, aye, I’ve wandered mony a mile, An’ plenty have I made’. The man sat on by the dull fire flame, When the pedlar went to rest. Close to his ear the Devil came, An’ slipped intil his breast. He look’d at his wife by the dim fire light, And she was as bad as he- ‘Could we no murder thon man the night? ‘Aye, could we, ready’ quo’ she. He took the pickaxe without a word. Whence it stood ahint the door; As he pass’d in, the sleeper stirr’d, That never waken’d more. ‘He’s deid!’, says the auld man, comin’ back- ‘What o’ the corp, my dear?’ ‘We’ll bury him snug in his ain bit pack, Niver ye mind for the loss of the sack. I’ve ta’en oot a’ the gear’. ‘The pack’s owre short by twa guid span’. ‘What’ll we do?’ quo’ he. ‘Och, you’re a doited, unthoughtfu’ man; We’ll cut him aff at the knee’. They shortened the corp and the pack’d him tight,